"sheaths" poems
Drowning in a cesspool of wishes
Destiny swims no farther than fishes.
Diligence seduces the tide,
She elopes, makes her a bride.
The singing bird sings,
The humming bee stings.
Inactivity kills the sweet dreamer but
Also exalts not the lazy ****
Puff your blunt, roll up your sleeves
Kiss your tools, empty your sheaths
Pray your hands grind the right mill,
Your hustle will have you chill.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Each is alone in the world
and on some the flowers
are of one *** only
they stand as though they had no secrets
and one by one the flowers emerge from the sheaths
into the air
where the other flowers are
it happens in silence except for the wind
often it happens in the dark
with the earth carrying the sound of water
most of the flowers themselves are small and green by day
and only a few are fragrant
but in time the fruits are beautiful
and later still their children
whether they are seen or not
many of the fruits are no larger than peas
but some are like brains of black marble
and some have more than one seed inside them
some are full of milk of one taste or another
and on a number of them there is a writing
from long before speech
and the children resemble each other
with the same family preference
for shade when young
in which colors deepen
and the same family liking for water
and warmth
and each family deals with the wind in its own way
and with the sun and the water
some of the leaves are crystals others are stars
some are bows some are bridges and some
are hands
in a world without hands
they know of each other first from themselves
some are fond of limestone and a few cling to high cliffs
they learn from the splashing water
and the falling water and the wind
much later the elephant
will learn from them
the muscles will learn from their shadows
ears will begin to hear in them
the sound of water
and heads will float like black nutshells
on an unmeasured ocean neither rising nor falling
to be held up at last and named for the sea
6.4k
Many months had whispered by
Unbeknownst to me
The sheaths of ice retreated slow,
And buds furled from the trees.
I had not stopped to grasp and hold
The notion laying stagnant
Within my chest, there thawing too
A sunken, fading, fragment
This withered seed, this dying shoot
Lay wilting in the dark
Until my sightless, bourbon eyes
Saw what was in my heart.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
I am unsure of the geology
of where you’re from.
I expect there exists
shelves and sheaths
pale grey-yellow
like serum in the blood
and rocks resembling
sun-weathered lobster
carapaces.
all of this enclosed by
a festoon of green pine—
its regalia cut sonic
and naked
wrung and wrung again
by august.
on the edge
a cabin is hemmed on
the skirt of ocean—
spikes of molding logs
propped and resting
akimbo.
a wave comes in.
a wave goes out.
a wave stays to shake
your hand.
introduces itself as
sensate verge
and wonderment.
home.
I can only imagine what
it is for you.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Cardinal sun rose
blooming as the
budding flower.
Buddha chants in the
chimes of birds
ethereal caught in gradual hot wind,
Darjeeling tea steam rises on tabletop my
mind is waking over Indonesian morning.
Foreign babel as hours draw even
cacophony of hurricane horns
the Denpasar traffic drumming
chorus midst markets where
radio emitting Li Zengguang
dizi dizzily prancing into the
assortments of spice and coiling fabrics
patterns potent azure and golden
royalty brass clatter caged noise
boiling *** cries the Orient!
Overgrowth spots the charring temples
in majesty and abundance cradling the narrow
Balinese streets while tropic palm
and orchid spring swells the soils.
Ardent sun sheaths eastern archipelagos,
religious offerings canvas sidewalks
incense burning in overwhelming
bouquets of efflorescence smelling
daedal tapestries within the paradise.
Sun goes on setting the jewel easing
underneath the horizon,
butterflies sway in rest
hearts on fire
the ceremonies have finished.
Thunder shrieks against the sea
torrential rain firing on villa ceilings.
My eyes set to sleep
consciousness transitioning
between two dreams.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Supernal abodes ours where we be as
soul-sheaths more transparent than we aspire
*in abodes we of
self-modification more transparent than we petaled hope*
of here, realms where bloom delights, beacons of
petaled hope, amid the rhythms of ice-pins
*amid Supernal beacons of delights
space, sensation soul-sheaths expansion of ice-pins*
in expansion space, sensation light and
self-modification all perception
*be as bloom ours where all perception here, realms where
aspire light and the rhythms*
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
as a child i had a sense of before
i only a tenant in this world
i dreamt, i remembered
a place of light and freedom
of flying weightless
without a care
recurring reveries
of changeless drifting
but as i got older
my astral excursions
turned to thin air
much to hearts despair
i fell weighted to this terrestrial sphere
by thickened accumulations
of hard niches and obscurations
a delicate spark burdened
by sheaths of gnawing reason
engulfed in brutish struggle
at times
i obsessed
aching to go
back from where i came
maybe stepping in front of a speeding car
desperate to get home
where the dead
live it up
cadaverous child
a strewn tangle of little limbs
broken
on a country highway
who made a hard sacrifice
for a bigger life
where the very sensation of existence
was a floating ecstasy
like an atomized cloud puff
where the dead
are not dead at all
but enchanted children
living
with faces like suns
on the other-side of the looking glass
feet to the stars
in the arms of heaven
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
From a platform, he was pushed
down onto the ground.
There he landed with a great cry, a lonesome sound,
where the beasts took him with teeth;
molars and canines in the form of sticks and swords for sheaths,
beat him till his lungs gave in, until they no longer heaved for a breath.
Collapsed sacks of skin in a broken body
on a broken roof
somewhere without a name,
just a news channel hook
and gambit,
theme tune and a corpse laying bare on a video screen,
shield your eyes, place a blanket over the body and boy.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
when darkness falls upon my death
this heart is reaped
head laid to rest
do not weep
nor steep regret
you mustn't grieve a hollow chest
the calling of a soul to shed
all mortal sheaths
and specious breath
divinely deemed
a doom beset
by shadows of a hollow chest
as darkness breathes within our breast
our spirit clings
to walls of death
envisioning
a light bereft
imprisoned by a hollow chest
there's a certain song that's wept
within the halls
of sacrament
grief begone
and faith beget
freedom from a hollow chest
© Jason Cole
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
The Elders of the Elven Mists, at the Death of the Old Queen
From all around the Realm they came a Conclave to convene
The fair haired Golden Locks of young Azky they did Crown
Queen Azky Rode a Royal Beast of All Dragons he was King
The Queens Beast Yaz Kere Loved Soaring About on Wing
Yaz Kere knew it was his Royal fate to Protect Queen Azky
And Carry her aloft his Back Steadfast so Her Elf Arrows Fly
The Dragons lived in Erehwon upon the Chrysenal Trees
The Elves harvested the Leaves for Enchanted Wizardry
Much Magic came from those Potions as Magical Notions
To protect both Elf and Beast in Battle against enemy Hovens
The Mordel slipped in by night to Steal the Magic Leaves
but Yaz roared Alarm to dragons as swords Pulled from Sheaths
Queen Azky, Quiver, Elven Bow and Yaz Off to the Sky they go
Blades clashed and Arrows Flew as Dragons passed above the war
As Elven arrows hit thier Mark, hordes weakened to rearward
The Mordel tried but Only failed and thus ends the Battles Tale
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
Mother Nature is swaying in the breeze, her branches strong.
Her life full and alive she sings with flowers and dances with the bees,
But her mind is boorish to the oncoming threat of November.
The startling entrance of Fall is like fire to her leaves,
New electricity attacks her arm’s protectors; prepared with strong green shields.
Yellow, orange, then deep red bleed into a burnt, crackled brown and black ash.
As her melodic hum of green vanishes, a starling yellow spark leaps,
Ablazed chaos now runs on her twisted, knotted, and wise branch-arms.
Eruptions of heat and confusion Mother Nature is seen screaming,
Raptured coldly, her green peace is painfully and hollowly attacked.
Her first shiver yesterday revealed her weakness,
Her shade flees, no longer able to stand the icy-sharp stabbings of winter.
Her annual sigh of defeat inevitably followed, thus beginning her hibernation,
Her tired arms creak and break, letting down their burnt sheaths,
Slowly spiraling down, down, down to the hungry ground.
Closing down to mourn Mother Nature is unclothed and shamed.
Her once green body now dried, bare, and cracked.
Withering winter brings blue death and ice to her brown skin.
Naked she shivers and freezes for three months to come.
But Spring will bring her a new strength and humility.
Mother Nature’s momentary fall will only chill, not ****
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
The stars and the moon peer down from their dark cacoon,
At the man who walks upon the shadowed fields.
The lights of the town, sit flickering atop the swollen hill,
They will not sleep nor will they lie still.
What a beautiful place to be lost and unknown.
To run your hands where the wind has not yet blown.
But he does not know this, lest he loses his confidence,
And continues as though he knows where to go.
The valley is wrapped in the beautiful cold,
Where the stars do not warm and the wind does not blow.
The cold that holds warmth down in its belly,
The stomach of the beast. ‘Not to fret’; says he.
The air below the sky and above the valley,
Is strange and it’s quiet; not light, nor is it heavy.
The air coddles him and asks him questions,
And looks him in the eyes as though they’ve not met him.
From the corners of the earthy bowl, the wind howls and blows and bites,
And sting his eyes and make him cry,
And kiss and ***** his stinging face,
And wrap him in their cold embrace.
Still, he walks, through the golden sheaths,
The trees on the border talk ‘neath their heavy leaves.
Close to him you can hear his breath,
Warm and cold and deep in his chest.
The bones of the sky are milky white,
And the arms of the earth embrace the night.
‘Defy me’. Says he, and ‘discover me’, says they,
‘Before our arms are wrinkled and old and our bones are cold and grey.’
‘Break me and bind me, but you can’t defy me.’
‘search me and map me, but you won’t truly know me.’
For it is he and it is I that beg you to defy,
The very thing that we create, the success we crave and the mistakes we make.
How weak we are when we think we’re strong,
And how we know they are right and we wish we were wrong.
But pull me from my reverie and make me cry and make me see,
That it is better to be in your dark cacoon
than to be as sad as your milky moon.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
The dust of their coming and going
Sifts down through the years,
Their gravity once knotted fabric to flesh;
Even though they're near,
Just the ashes, are all can impress.
Since time snapped in two between their fingers,
They haven't aged much, except to uncoil,
Unwind branching strands;
Under satin recoil
Beneath brass sheaths, the body banal.
We walk upon the faces of kings, and sleep
High, on the ruined backs of strangers;
All unknowing, how the dust gets laid,
Unaware of the danger-
Every generation becomes the new day.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
We took a bus to Wilmington
And skipped a dream or two
In order to be cognizant—
When the “Are we there yet’s”
Rebounded void of “yet.”
We parked the bus adjacent to
The paint-peeling facade
Of lonely temple Wilmington—
Threatening no demon of the sky
With a keenly polished death spike.
It had no spendthrift window of
Christ Jesus with the sick
And poor, neglected derelicts—
Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride
For His altruistic charities.
Across its door was fastened tight
A rusted iron chain
Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls—
Who loitered at the barrier’s feet
Waiting on God to warrant entry.
But we who were of cogent view
Detached deterring catch
And entered with our chins *****
A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary
Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew.
And down a velvet aisle stood
A lonely, weeping priest
Inhaling in unblemished palms—
That not a single pious doubter
Would dare inspect.
“Welcome to my church,” he said
With breathless, choking sobs,
“I am the congregation here—
The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher
Of Wilmington Church of Reason.”
Inquired we what hidden woe
Enlaced with torment cast
Those salt discharged convulsions—
Quaking the sanctity of exultation
In the House of Apollo.
And with concise, unleavened words
He justified his tears
And whispered to our weary troop—,
“Alone, alone am I,
Isolated within this box of omitted truth.
“O, give me soothing slumber deep
And strip these sentient eyes
From ghastly sheaths of consciousness—
Repair this mended paradigm,
Or tell me that I am mistaken.
“Imaginary friends and foes
Make wretched hearts a wreath
Of roses red and mistletoe—
And bird of paradise to keep
Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…”
So each of us, a brimming cup
Of empathy, remained
To keep old pastor Wilmington—
Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington
Alive and awake and well.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
A tyrant king, a
Vandal’s scream
Of moor & rock
And fair I sing;
Life’s to its
Test, guer-
don of unrest,
&strife; believed!
Milked out
like utter red; lipids
****** hard
at birth: semi-
born: made
three legion’s ****
careful; cuz fate’s,
Allectus, mean.
Made in sheaths
An aural memor-
y lock, a- nswer ur
calling; tricky to
be bad &get; a-
way w/it! Caraus-
ius’s on guard
duty; he’s in.
Fog in chan-
nel; no lights:
Bware! Usurp-
ing cou- ntry,
mauling& killing men
To ob- tain
Power; @any
risk in Britain.
gold insignias!
shine ur lite!
greed can’t
pay—poenas dat!
Ascle-
piod-
otus
hears:
He, Allectus does a-
way w/.
Besei-
ge in London—rime
the trea-
sure al-
located;
Vain he found, good.
Crack souls’ ice;
To ruin comes
conceit, comes
that rip- ped part.
Ah, to p’wer& knifes
Like wo- rds...
P’wer slashes
Carves, &impales;.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
1.5k
The cave was dark and hollow
"What? Ok i'm with ya so far captain obvious"
It was cold and it smelled like bat ****
"Would you listen to this guy
Who the **** is writing this?"
He wanted to go further but he was scared of the dark
"Alright! That's it. This is ****** nonsense
My turn!"
The reader followed the poet into the cave
Nails protruded through his cracked skull
pounded from the inside
by the drivle he had just read
Burning daggers dripped from his eyes
and melted into pools of lava on the cave floor
Feeling the intense heat
the poet turns around
Then suddenly
"bat **** in his shorts
The reader unsheaths
Frozen with terror
the bat **** poet closes his eyes
When he returns from the blink
readers blade is fast against his jug
"I will spare your life if you never write again"
Whimpering
Yes. Yes. Please i'll do anything
"Well you can do whatever you want really
I'm not that much of a ****
Just no more writing"
Ok. Ok. Just let me go!
The reader sheaths his blade
as the "bat **** poet begins to run
"Oh
And it's gauno son
It's gauno"
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Have you seen the soft light of her eye?
The speckled dusts that line
the record sheaths
Spinning in the groovy beat of eternity
Somewhere high above the skies
veiled in wisps, her water-bearing cirrus
and looming presence of Cumulonimbus
running the deluge of thoughts into the brain
and giving the gift of loving rains
There she is, the lovely moon--
A pockmarked pearl in distant gloom
A momentary gift, spinning her disk
in shafts of light on fallow eyes
I have been long lost, in varied dream
The boundless world around careens
Empty towards the end of move
But I'll spend the rest of this with you
The moon, Earth's aeons of planetary dance
in loving poise of circumstance
Her writhing storm of life between
the ever-floating nodes of light
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
His naked hands, so cold
I become lavender
sticks poking from lace sheaths, wanting to
be a wedding dress
or just a piece of someone in love
the powder, aroma of a man
who forsook his lover last spring.
Her tomb is just a box filled with earth
that opens to the pearly
gate of heaven
and each of her legs have grown
stiff because god so desperately needed to
shape a marble mold of the most
perfect being he
ever created and killed way, way too soon.
(the road has ended as
many stories as it has begun)
Hot concrete pried her mouth open
and I will be the one to
sing through it until she gets her voice back
like using sugarcane
to lure clouds into leaving the sky.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed **** who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
Unblemished veneer caresses each fold
Glossy sheen with silken strands manifold
Face brimming with rosy hue; underneath satin sheaths scrolled
Coarse fibers with satiating nutrients doled
My eyes peel each savory layer, delicately kneading each fiber apart
My nostrils intoxicated by sweet, pungent aroma your core doth impart
My fingers ****** and swab each, soft, curvaceous part
My lips drivel as the sugary juices from your mellow stalk doth depart
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 1:58 AM UTC
Eyelids flicker
Under eyelash sheaths irises roll and pupils dilate
Hands clench sweat-soaked sheets
Clinging onto cliff edges of their minds
Lips mumble incoherent protests
Begging for a release not available
From the captors in their head
Until you are released, dropped if you will
The fall. The jolt.
The few seconds of paralysis
Caught between the paroxysm of colour left over from your mind's eye
And the cool darkness of your room
Your breath catches, your pulse slows
And you fall back, oblivious, into many hours of vividly shadowed dreams before dawn
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Now, she is a ghost
as your grandfather would be
had he lived in such a time one exists,
the Air Force veteran sort of pilot
and green blankets for feet,
looking ready to lie, mermaid fin.
Ghosts are such glassy things,
fragile. They are almost always
shattering for some reason.
Or another, picking roses upon
sheaths and tufts of a garden home,
these thorns appear more complicated
than the ones down south,
more intricate or something so.
As she floats upon the wormbeds,
a daisy blossoms like teacups
sat in a line of a dozen knives, to ****
her once more: the foul columns.
This can be a myth,
had it not been an empty ivy vine
choking her heart and making her a
sheet, she glitters near invisible
and must be upstairs with
your grandfather’s veteran friends:
and know, yes, the crystal is real
but ghosts do not exist
until far beyond their death.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
Embracing
I, tugging at his hair
(wishing I could tug at his belt)
him, paced and guided,
guiding his hand lower
I wish I could feel him tighten
I felt myself loosen
Almost collapsing into his arms
Almost gasping
Almost neglecting knowing of where I was
(where I wish we were,
under my sheets,
him between my sheaths
moving like the waves
to the rhythm of the moon
drift sideways, in and out
tensing, pausing, the sun almost breaking through,
sea foam contracts and disappears
the waves in his eyes
dilute, dilate.
whilst mine, with body
retire with the satiating taste of his lips
on my own)
– where was I again?
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 8:08 AM UTC